DEATH Poem: An Elegy of Memories, by Gray Dawson

My mother always smelled of shea butter
and cigarettes. She’d fall asleep sitting up,
smoking. If you didn’t take it and put it out
there’d be a new hole in her comforter.

My mother rarely slept at night,
the ants in her legs moved too much.
Some nights she’d ball up her fist and pound
at the bugs. It only helped a little bit.

My mother never showed up on time,
before she left the house she’d have to check her purse:
Cigarettes, backup cigarettes, multiple diet cokes, keys, lighter, cash, phone.
Cigarettes, back up cigarettes, multiple diet cokes, keys, lighter, cash, phone.
Then again to make sure. And ten more times after that.
She was convinced she’d forget something important.

My mother always showed up.
Performances, Awards, Parent teacher conferences,
she was there. Not once did she ever grimace
when I idolized the parent who never was.

My mother always waited for me to react.
When she told me it was stage four,
with her lips pulled tight, trying to hold it in,
She didn’t cry until I started to shake.

My mother always loved me.
In her final moments she spent her energy
reassuring my brother and I,
that she wasn’t giving up on us.

Author: poetryfest

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